Cats Rule the World

I just watched a TV ad for a cat food, "not in a can." And, you can see real fish in it..." (a small shrimp was shown.) When I was a kid, I called my cat home by running the can opener. Like a cheetah, she raced home. Once you go can, you never go cat chow again. PEOPLE! We must regain our lives! Next they will discover lobster and it's all over.

Unruly Kids on School Bus

Since I usually watch the TV news in "mute" mode, I wouldn't mention this, but they keep replaying it around here, over and over---and now a weekly paper is reporting how a school bus driver stepped on a boy who had crutches because he was fighting and went under a bus seat on the floor. The driver was attempting to hold him down. In the other instance the driver was shouting, "STOP FIGHTING! WHY WON'T YOU STOP?!" It was a vicious looking rumble and those kids were not small. And a bus driver somewhere stopped fast to knock the kids in their seats and on their butts. Of course, there were scraps and some parents want the driver's head.

Here is my thought: If any of MY kids were involved with being anywhere but seated on that school bus, they would have been in deep trouble when they got home. I expect the bus driver to pull over if possible and call for help. But sue? No. Not unless the driver's response put my child in more danger than the out of control kids. I would sooner sue those kid's parents. Any child who does not stay seated or bothers another child should get ONE warning, with a copy to their parents and teachers.

What do you think? The bus driver sounded scared.

Selling Short Always Shitty, Journey of MS

My band member left me for greener pastures. His real band will even be on TV!! It will be Hawaiian music. I am very happy for him and the band. Another check off my bucket list. Singing with him was great fun. I'll post his TV gig for Seattle area folks on my side bar later this week.



Struggling with my ukulele---left fingers too weak and out of my control to play chords I want, but that is ok, I knew it would be a journey. I love the sound of it though and have many ideas about playing it.



The walking program is moving along, not as fast as I would like, but again, a journey and moving forward.



Very busy at retirement joint and still enjoying life here. Secondary progressive MS---I hope I never let it define me or stop me from taking journeys. Never sell yourself short; that's shitty.

Tiffany and Millionaire's Chicanery

Republicans stopped a bill to revamp Wall St. chicanery, voting together once again against all the Democrats. Now debates will be led by financial industry lobbyists behind closed doors instead of both parties in the halls of freedom, and the majority of Americans lose again. To check the roll call click here. We are headed toward another stock market bubble and burst, with many stocks at all time highs. Funny how Tiffany and other high end sales just keep growing, isn't it?

Whoopie Goldberg said on The View last week that she shouldn't have to pay higher taxes and no body knows where her money goes, then insinuating it goes or has gone for sick family members---HELLO, many of us with a fraction of your money, Whoopie, also use what little we have for doctors and family members in need. Either we make this country solid together, or let it crumble under the weight of our bickering.

Hawking Aliens. We Better Stop NASA

When I'm done with something, I'm done with it. I will do a thing to my best and when I feel I have given all I can---I am finished and I move on. There is so much work to be done in this world. Stephen Hawking says there are other planets full of human eating conquers, like the white man did to the Native Americans. He says we should not try to make contact and hope that they stay away. I'm okay with that---I'm ready to move on.

Arizona Wants No Tourists

Check out a great post about the Arizona Concentration Camp debacle at Screw Bronze
http://elizabethmcclung.blogspot.com/2010/04/first-us-gated-community-now-usa.html

Fire Procedures and People with Disabilities

This morning at 5:14AM our 20 year old retirement building fire alarm went off.

I was washing up, preparing for the day. First my nose started sniffing for smoke--nothing. Then I eyed the sprinklers on each room's ceiling--nothing. It took about 5 minutes to hear a fire truck in the distance. I wondered how this would play out, our first fire alarm in my new home.

Since it is Saturday, the usual staff is not here. One of the issues I felt needed addressing in the survey I made as the VP of our all resident council, was emergency preparedness; this would give a good test.

Long story short: The main security guard on duty 24/7, began looking for source of fire alarm. The caregivers on duty 24/7, jumped out of bed, didn't even grab all their clothes and began looking too. Within in a short time it appeared the alarm near the bistro by the front door had been pulled. But, there was no fire. The fire firefighters arrived and along with the now up and about maintenance man (all hands on deck by this point, since the alarm was steady for at least 10 minutes) they turned off the alarm.

It is thought that a disgruntled visitor pulled the alarm when they found their car blocked in. We have new security cameras and I hope they are caught and fined appropriately. The residents were fearful and out in the halls. Such a selfish act in a retirement community can cause a panic among residents, even heart attacks, falls, death. People just don't think sometimes.

Where we lived before it was a mixed retail building with a 6 plex theatre. Often on Friday nights after the midnight shows, some jerk would pull the alarm. What they didn't know was that there were people LIVING in apts. on the other side of the building, some in wheel chairs, and well, kids just don't think. But I expect better from an adult in a retirement home.

I never used to be afraid of fires. Even when we lived 9 stories up, I could run down those stairs in a flash. (did it for fun) But, now I am disabled and can't even stand alone.

As I watched the towers drop during 9-11, my mind went to all those in there who were trapped in wheelchairs. After stories trickled out, there was that one man who was helped down and one who a co-worker refused to leave---but those were the only stories. It wasn't until the 9-11 Commission Report that the truth was told; those in wheelchairs sat and died.

When my job with the city of Seattle moved to a 62 story building, I was already planning how I could wrangle telecommuting. That building was new, ceilings not all completed, and an ADA drop out. (Even though by law it should have been built ADA (Americans with Disabilities Act) compliant. Nada. Before moving in, I took my measuring tape and clipboard, documenting all that needed to be done to comply.

Not surprisingly, I ran up against resistance. Not more so than from the man in charge of fire evacuations for my floor. Paid much more than I, he was clueless when it came to evacuating people with disabilities. A long story. Let's just say I tried my best to get a system in place, but with no support from Mayor or anyone at Seattle City Light and Seattle Public Utilities, I finally started telecommuting (I have no doubt they sought to be rid of me.) and hope for the best for all those who work there. Maybe things have changed now. Only the Fire Marshall was supporting my efforts at the time. And I had MS, not the fighter I once was. (tee hee, the Fire Marshall's representative, or the Marshall, can't recall, was "Burn." I kidded her about it. "Yeah, I get that a lot," she said.

People in wheelchairs are supposed to head for stairwells and wait. While their hundreds of co-workers walk down past them, while smoke fills their lungs, wait. Really? In 2010? That is still the best we can do?

I was told the fire fighters would have a list and know where all the disabled people were. Really? Did someone put a chip in me? I went to many floors for meetings, classes---GIMME A BREAK. Once I was told the front security had a list. Really? I asked security (and I had worked as a security guard), they know nothing of a list. By next month, they had a list! But my name wasn't on it.

Many emails went back and forth, some pretty steamed (no pun to topic intended, well...maybe.) between a young man in charge of emergency preparedness and me. I cc'd the city council and mayor. He just didn't get it. I doubt he ever did. Luckily, nothing major has happened in that building yet, but it is only a matter of time. The Fire Dept. gave me many great suggestions, none that the building kid gave two cents about. He attempted a smear campaign, but hard to do to a good employee and one in a wheelchair.

In our previous apt., I was assured by owners that my name was marked on the Fire Dept. breaker box, advising that I was disabled. When I started chatting up a security guard, "Hey, where is the breaker box?" Yep, no names whatsoever. Even the Fire Dept. blew me off.

There ARE laws, rules, and procedures in place for evacuating people with disabilities and the elderly, from a burning building. But few are educated in them, few teach them, few enforce them. Next time you visit a large building, ask "What are your evacuation procedures? Where are they posted?" And watch a deer in headlights personified.

Fibromyalgia Network Not in it for Profit

"The Fibromyalgia Network is solely supported by your memberships. To remain unbiased, we do not accept advertising, pharmaceutical company sponsorship, governmentt funds, or donations of any kind. We are only here to serve you."

There was a time, not so long ago, that no doctor believed that Fibromyalgia was anything beyond a psychological disorder. My partner suffered with it for years, along with other body malfunctions, and usually ended up in a psychiatrist's office. A co-worker of mine told me that she too had Fibromyalgia (FMS), and she told me on a downtown street corner, in front of my office building in the middle of a crowd (in her booming voice): "Her father molested her when she was a child. It has been proven." Yep, those were the days. There were no associations, no fund-raisers, no ribbons or bracelets (they are purple), just non-believers and sick people being told it was all in their heads.

Now, thanks to brain research, it is known, better understood, and one day a cure will come.

I couldn't help admiring the statement on their newsletter. And inside, actual unbiased discussion of FDA drugs from big PHARMA. Surprise-surprise, the drugs don't work much more than a placebo. And I would love a price comparison of the money spent on advertising VS research and development. Lipitor and the other cholesterol lowering drugs with horrible side effects, are science thin and advertisement heavy. PLUS it has yet to be scientifically proven that lower cholesterol prevents heart attacks. Snake oil anyone?

To Visit or subscribe to The Fibromyalgia Network click here.

Hate FaceBook and Who Do You Think You Are?

Where to begin? The games are sucking my brain cells. "I'll just do it for 5min." Turns into 30.

Friends from school, not like in a movie---the kids who came from higher income parents, they went to college, got degrees, professional jobs. Me, I became a civil servant dweeb. We have less in common now than then. They are healthy, I am not. Just like during school. They have kids. They are still straight. Gay teacher still in closet. No revelations, no high fives. People from old job still showing photos of grandkids, now we have even LESS in common. The Socialist is still a Socialist. People who usually bitched to me are bitching still. The "life is a rainbow," are still loftying around. Nobody really speaks to me and I mean that in every sense. The "friends" I like best are from blogs. And how much can I read in a day? Friends who are words. Social networking? That suggests there will be a physical connection and that ain't gonna happen from Facebook.

One person, I told her I didn't know her, she says, "I went to your high school, look me up in yearbook." Why would I want to do that? I hated school. I only liked Drama and had three real friends. One screwed me over.(Again, in ever sense of the word.) One died. One married the brother I can't stand. Some tell me they have MS in common, ok, read my blog if you want to know me. Comment. Maybe I will want to know you. My blog is full of controversial stuff. I am much more than MS.

Play Farm with me...seriously? I am 52, oops, 53, pretend games when life is running me ragged and I am surrounded by all the games I need. Games for me are social networking, it is never about the game---that means talking, not typing. Except basketball, but I won't be playing that anytime soon.

Now big business is moving in on Facebook anyway, soon I will be wading through advertisements. I hate being used. They think THEY know me and slap ads on my page. I hate that. "Long lost relatives" are wanting to friend me---seriously? Oh, a family tree? Will you be adding my partner? (No.) Will history show you had a relative who was not heterosexual? (No)
Is there such a tree ANYWHERE? Because I would like to know. There are others in MY tree, but I will never know. Wrong millennium. The tree makers will leave that out and I know it. I have a whole book of my mother's family tree and not one mention of any homosexuals. No one had MS either...in the tree. Ellen is related to Madonna, and so?

That new show, "Who Do You Think You Are?" is one big ad for Ancestry.com; I did their 14 day free trial----seriously? They couldn't even give me the name of my father's dad. I gave them a piece of my mind too. What a rip off. Nothing that can't be found online. They are NOT going to hunt down your family member who was almost burned at the stake in Salem like they did for Sarah Jessica Parker---that takes foot work that only you can do. (Unless you are rich and pay someone to search it all.) Everything else you can search online. Military records go online in 2012. (FYI) What Ancestry.com does is try and direct, suggest, you to others with your surname and hope you will decide you have a relative in common, THEN they take the credit and your money for it. Here is who I think I am: NOT STUPID.

What is this sudden desire to know your family? Maybe you should have started when you were a kid and gotten to know older family members. Maybe you should research yourself at the library in your home town, start there like one of my cousins did. She is tracking stuff down the fun way and she has uncovered secret upon secret.

Facebook, like Twitter, is good and was developed for one reason: advertising/promoting. OK, I'll give you this, if you have a family spread across the states or world, it is pretty nice to see photos and hear what's up, but call me old fashioned, I prefer letters. And I like email, now that MS makes writing difficult. Certainly the senior citizens at my retirement place are not on FB. And if my aunt and Mom could read them, they would still get some letters with pics every week.

Oh well, I still mute TV commercials. I guess I'm just anti-social.

Bingo at Retirement Home--What a Loser

Finally got around to playing Bingo at my retirement diggs last night. Okay, first---wore out this little MSer. I was EXHAUSTED when it was over. (Sometimes I forget I have MS.) I think the room was on the warm side too. ANYHOO, they expected 4 or 5 people, I counted over 10. I was told to bring a quarter---WRONG---it cost $2.85 for two cards. I am pretty sure my fellow residents have decided I am two cans short of a six pack. (at least) I WARNED them that I hadn't played in 38 years, in a barn, in a cornfield in Indiana. (And likely my mom played while I watched.) We used corn for markers. I thought in 2010 they used chips or pens...NOT. It was a high tech board with flip covers for each number called.

Okay, let's just say, everyone but me and the woman sitting next to me, had Bingo at least once! One lady had it 4 or 5 times but didn't yell out Bingo in time.

By game 13, I heard this from the caller, "B sjiy 789 dhk 6hjh u9 f4 k9 f4" and so on---I'd lost it.

Bridge was a picnic next to BINGO. (Any body loan me $2.85 in dimes and nickels?)
"Where did you get all that change from?" I asked. They all had it and nobody had change for my 5. "From my grandkids." one woman replied. (Everyone else ignored me) "I should have had kids," I said, hoping to illicit a laugh. (rough bunch these) "that's all their good for," she replied.

Alrighty then. Next step: get the word out about how much money to take to the Bingo night and the rules. (No, I also did NOT know one had to race to yell Bingo, though in retrospect it makes sense...)

Clemyjontri Liberty Swing for Children in Wheelchairs

Following my thoughts in my previous post, I started thinking about kids in wheelchairs. How do the have access to merry-go-rounds and swings?

Well, it seems that in the ADA USA---they don't. In Fairfax County, Virginia, a swing for kids in wheelchairs is trying to be built in a park there, one of the only ones in the country. While such swings are common in New Zealand and Australia, there are only a few in U.S.A. We speak of equality a lot here, but have, in our history, not backed up words with actions.

The Liberty swing in Virginia needs funds that are not there. For more information or to make a donation, call Paul Baldino at 703-324-8581 or visit www.fxparks.org and click on "Clemyjontri Park" or "Liberty Swing" under the "Our Projects" link. And consider asking your public park to install one.

(Read comments for more information.)

More Monsters Now? Children Playing Freely

While watching Flashforward the other night, there was a scene showing tow adults with their kids at a park a block from the one partner's home. That got me to thinking---when did I play at a park like that, with monkey bars and slides, when I was a kid?

We had plenty of parks in Ft. Wayne, and I have several memories of playing with my favorite cousin at them. Aunt Vi usually dropped us off and came back to pick us up after she shopped. I have a hard time remembering adults hanging around, in fact I know there were not any because if we fell, we were on our own.

My partner, also 53, does not remember kid parks like there are today. She recalls a tether ball pole at her school play yard, but that's all. My school play ground (it was all cement) didn't even have that, just a basketball hoop, no net.

Yes, there was a time when it was safe to drop your kids off at a park and let them run free, with balls or kites. (A sled during winter.) We wore no bike helmets and stood up in the back seat of the car. Somehow we survived.

Are there more people to fear now or has the media promoted the idea and made monsters? Do we really need cars that go 100 MPH? Kids today don't know what they're missing.

Tea Party Speaks for so Few. Obama is President: Deal With It

March against Tea Partiers in Seattle last week. As we meet the KKK head on, so must we rally when TP does.

Growing Old with Skin Tags, Fingernail Ridges, Gravity

Mom gave me my first diary in 1979. I was 21 and it would be the most full and fantastic year of my life so far. I had my life planned. By 21 I would be married, by 30 I would be set in a good job, by 35 I would own the house that I would retire to and after 30 years with same employer I would retire with a gold watch. Maybe children, maybe many friends, maybe acting, maybe New York City, maybe a university degree or two. I had it all planned.

Of course I realized life would throw me curves and not every goal would be reached, but looking back at age 53, I am not displeased with where I am. Had law allowed me, I would have been married by 22, by 29 I had the good job, by 34 I owned a condo (though I would not retire there), and the rest? Well, not exactly how I saw it, but good enough for the minors and good enough for me.

That 1979 diary is a keeper though, so much happened that changed my life forever. It also started a keeper of diaries/journals. I have one for every year since. One thing I wanted to watch was how my body aged. My first facial lines are noted, my first thinning of very thick hair, my first gum loss and so on. Since I know you are as interested as I, here are a few:

My first facial lines started at age 33 and they were brought on by surgery to remove a "foot ball size" tumor from my uterus. The lines were those marienett mouth lines and they were due to my lose of 40lbs in a short time.

My between the brows line came when I got into flossing at age 34, when I had a good looking body and wanted perfect teeth to match. From 34--38 forehead lines started in, as my health and that of my partner, began to decline.

After ovarian cancer was found at age 38, two more surgeries and two scars making a cross in the middle of my stomach. If you have had a cesarean section, you are familiar with the resulting pouch left behind. My gyno said it would never go away, but not true, with exercise that pouch goes away, but the scars remain. It took about 9 years for the pouch to leave.

At age 40 I noticed a skin bump on my face, just under my right eye. Friends told me it was a skin tag and a dermatologist confirmed that. EXCUSE ME? What is this? Aging, tag you're it!
Yes, pretty much. From 40 out new and unusual matter will appear and transform on the largest organ of our body---the skin. With time these will become larger, darker, harder, stranger. Get used to it.

My first "liver spot" appeared at age 41, sitting in the sun on my Broadway balcony in the heart of Seattle---there it was: my mother's hand. That spot right where she had one, as long as I can remember. Now in my 50s, they appear sooner after small amounts of time in the sun. Hench the pure white hands of the Royals, they wore gloves.

My hair texture became coarse starting at age 33, but the white hairs started at 18 and suddenly stopped at 34, only to begin again at 49. (And I hoped to be white by 35! Shoot.)
I am longer in the tooth only due to the 2x/year teeth cleanings where my gum is removed. I asked and was told the gums never grow back. Now I know why aunt Vi kept her own teeth into her 80s, and my mother as well---no cleanings. No, they are not pretty, movie star teeth, but they did not allow a dentist to tear away their gums. I insist on the cleanings, so I must figure something out about the gums. My mom is 82 and never a root canal will see the dark of her mouth.

My finger nails, always strong and fast growing, have developed vertical ridges. Mayo site says, "...aging...common..." and so it goes. No varicose veins, no cellulite, both thanks to my genes.

The hairs on my arms have become coarse, but an increase in sunlight seems to rectify that. My eyes are normal, except for the MS optic problem, that will always show as a pale spot upon exam. (I warn the docs ahead of time.)

My chin, a constant issue from childhood years of obesity, is trying hard to droop. The neck is transforming slowly towards grandma's. Crows feet are not there yet, thanks to a dry wit, and no smoking. Hands started wrinkling when relaxed at age 45.

My cognitive functions seem intact and after a game of Euchre (a card game I swear by to keep your brain healthy) I can answer Jeopardy questions with great aplomb. My sense of humor is peaking. The joy and ability of debating remains intact.

Off my body goes to the next year, its 53rd. So far so good. Am I crazy? Do you take note of your aging? It all fascinates me so.

Demand Your Hospital Allow Rights to Homosexuals

And so it was a lesbian with MS and her hospitalized partner who reached President Obama's heart so much that he called her from Air Force One to apologize for the discrimination they suffered in a hospital, where Janice Langbehn who has MS, was kept from the room of her partner of over 15 years, who was struck down at age 39 by a brain aneurysm.

President Obama "mandated Thursday that nearly all hospitals extend visitation rights to the partners of gay men and lesbians and respect patients' choices about who may make critical health-care decisions for them, perhaps the most significant step so far in his efforts to expand the rights of gay Americans." --Washington Post

OK, this is great, but "...nearly all" ??? We have a place at the table, but not all the silverware. I am so sick of this dragging on. In Seattle, long before any gay rights attacked hospitals, I have NEVER had any problem seeing my partner in the hospital. Seattle just "gets it." And still we can not get married in my state, since the rest of the state is leaning right so far it almost hits Idaho. Luckily, we are so sick neither of us can leave Seattle.

Who does it hurt if a gay person visits their partner in the hospital? This was a huge issue during the 1980s when AIDS gripped the gay community and hundreds died alone across America, with their loved one sitting alone, just feet away. I am flabbergasted that 30 years later it is still an issue. You think the fix is as simple as our President mandating change? Only heterosexuals can change this, clearly gay activism has failed. Every time you visit a hospital or clinic, ask if they allow homosexual partners to have the same rights as you have and if the answer is "no," complain. If the answer is "yes" applaud. It is THAT simple. And when I read stories like the recent woman with MS and her dead partner she could not cradle in her arms, I feel anger at heterosexuals, because YOU have the power to change this with such a simple action. But, you didn't. I hear people talk so much about wanting to change the world, lead a purposeful life, leave their mark---well, what are you waiting for? Is it too much to ask of you?

Sunny Seattle, Wheelchair Driver Blowing Pollen

Beautiful Seattle day for a wheelchair stroll to my favorite little grocery. So many pretty yellow flowers, oh, right, weeds some say---love to blow them into the air and watch them float. (Or as my allergy challenged partner says, "Spread pollen." (You say tomayto, I say tomahto...)

Oh, and would you believe that cruel delivery boy would not spare a beer for a little 'ol me?

(See Seattle downtown in background? I could wheel there!)

Diane's advice for the day: What's good for your heart is good for your brain. Eat better, exercise, sleep 6-10 hrs a day/night, laugh, love, play, and find a purpose for your time on this planet. Never stop reading, and never say, "I'm too old to change." (Say that enough and your brain will believe it.)

Tired of Waiting on Doctors--Solution

I am so fed up with waiting on my neurologist. I ask for first appt. in morning and still I can wait up to 30 minutes past my appt. time. In four (four already?) years she has not been on time once. And NEVER an apology. Look what a clinic here is trying:

Patients wear a badge that monitors time they must wait for their doctor. Doctors also wear them to keep track of where they are and how long a visit from entry to leaving. The clinic using it are shooting for 46 minutes and in just two weeks they have almost reached that goal. Now THIS is an idea whose time has come! Yea for patients!

Read more here.

Secondary Progressive MS: What Your Doctor Won't Tell You

Ok, 1.) Approx. 90% of people with relapsing/remitting multiple sclerosis will become a person with secondary progressive MS. That means YOU, unless you are in the lucky 10%. Since most people start with relapsing/remitting MS, YOU, like ME will join the secondary progressive club one day. No matter what drug you have been sold on, 90% of you will progress and become disabled. Now, take a deep breath. Rejoice that you do not have primary progressive MS. Rejoice that you will have RR for about 20 years after diagnosis. Rejoice that you were able to walk and stand up to at least 15 years after diagnosis. Rejoice that you could still hold a job, start a family, and hold onto that hope that you were the 10%. If in those 20 years you ONLY had MS to deal with and no other diseases or conditions---rejoice. Many of your peers were not so lucky. No doctor knows how much any drug slows the natural progression of MS (not if they do 1 million MRIs), OR if it has slowed your natural progression AT ALL.



All the King's scientists and all the King's doctors can't put the MS puzzle together yet.



NOW! That is the bad news. The good news is very good. 2.) Once you have the secondary progressive diagnosis, you will probably stop having new exacerbations. If you never had bladder problems, you probably never will. Cool, huh? I think so. There is now less unpredictability in your life. If your left leg is bad, it will stay bad or slowly get worse---YOU KNOW WHAT TO FOCUS ON!! That is why I can't say it enough, what I wish someone had told me, start now if you are in RR, to work on your relapsing areas. Maybe your right hand will remit and be normal for the rest of your life, but why gamble? NINETY PERCENT



I was told that how I was doing after 5 years would predict my course. At 5 years I was doing GREAT! I was driving, shooting hoops, working 40+ hours a week, WOOT. But, the doctor and common MS knowledge was wrong. By 13 years I was pretty much secondary progressive. Normal MS progression. Today, with all the ways and all the push to diagnose sooner, get you on an MS drug sooner, stats will show that people will go longer years before they become secondary progressive---you do the math---smoke and mirrors. I would have been diagnosed with MS 8 years sooner. I would have gone on the new drugs sooner and been told "LOOK how well you are doing thanks to this drug!" By the age of 53, I would be right where I am. (Except with the added stress of having MS for 8 more years, doctor appts., high drug costs, and all the anxiety I read on the blogs of the newly diagnosed.



Here is some more doctors won't tell you because they don't know---you can improve your functioning. Just don't ever give up on your body or brain and don't let yourself be labeled with duct tape as "Secondary Progressive." Don't rest just because "why bother?" Bother. Bother because you are still alive and something of your brain and body works great. Seek that which makes you laugh. Breathe deeply every day. Make breathing an exercise. Get your diet together, toss the junk food, corn syrup, additives, sodas, cigarettes, all those evil doers.



Here is something else your doctor won't tell you: plan now to live with disability. If your MS is benign--woo hoo! If it follows the NINETY PERCENT , you are prepared. Now, I have heard that there are still crazy doctors out there who tell people just diagnosed to quit working and buy a wheel chair---AARRGGH That is worse than pretending you will never need a wheelchair, staying active as long as you can is the best drug. You have possibly twenty glorious years before you will need a wheelchair. And please don't feel guilt if you want one before 15 or 20 years, these years are not written in stone. Learn to listen to your body. It will speak loud and clear. (If you don't believe me, hit your thumb with a hammer.)



Why do so many neurologists not tell you about the true and time-proven state of MS? I can guess many reasons, but none are good excuses. Five days ago I played the piano. I played the piano with both hands. Thank goodness I had a friend with me to witness it or no one would have believed it---INCLUDING ME! When I imagine what it took for my brain to do that and my deformed fingers---AMAZING.

Reinvent YOU. There are so many activities I have been unable to do now, but many I never considered doing, and life goes on. Modern technology is a wonder boost for people with disabilities. Computers, the doors to the world, can use voice recognition to operate. Audio books can take you to more worlds. If you have saved enough money or have long term care insurance, you can buy "people" to help you; if you do not have either of those then the good old U.S. of A. is full of organizations that will find a way for you to get the help you need. There are also many people who will love to help you. Seek them now, familarize yourself now, BEFORE you are duct taped! Talk, talk, talk, to your family and friends about the fact, FACT, that MS is a chronic, progressive disease. My friends and family (including co-workers) were prepared for what happened to me and they were there to help me every inch of the way. (Well, when I say family, I mean my partner, she has been my only family as we think of family, for many years. I had to reinvent a new "family.")



What you won't be told is that you will most likely go into the secondary progressive state and you can survive it. It is even possible to do amazing things. Don't be afraid.



***I am no doctor. I am a woman living with secondary MS for 6 years. I was DX MS in 1990. I took Copaxone from 1997 to 2005. Seek professional advice and do your own research too. Because MS can cause different problems in each of us, no suggestion will fit everyone. But, after reading many MS blogs, I see many more similarities than differences. Most importantly: Be unafraid, you are not alone.***

Next Post: What You Need to Know About Secondary Progressive MS

Things no neurologist will ever tell you. I will.

The Secret Life of Mother and Daughter

The little girl turned off her bedroom light. The moon light skipped across the icicles on the inside of her window. She didn't want to turn in her bed, the warm over-sized winter coat she wore would rub her wrong where the buttons were. The two pairs of socks she wore were thick, but very dirty and it was hard to wiggle her toes. She watched her breath and pretended to be smoking a cigarette, then a cigar. In the distance a fire truck or ambulance would be racing down the big street at the end of her block. She liked to listen as far as she could and was pretty good at estimating where they were stopping, though it was more difficult in the winter with blowing winds and crackling ice sounds. But she could tell an ambulance from a fire truck, from a police car---very exciting to imagine what might be going on out there. Listen. She pulled her hood off to hear better, yes, that was a police car stopping around the gas station near the bridge. Quickly she put the hood back and wrapped the old scarf around her mouth, it was cold. Maybe a robber tried breaking into the station. Maybe someone fell off the bridge. She would listen for any ambulance.



As 2AM approached, it was very quiet outside her room, but not in the house. In the hallway, just outside her bedroom door, she could her their foot steps. How could a rat have such loud foot steps? she wondered. And where did they disappear to in the morning? She believed they lived inside the closet space outside of the bathroom. It had no door, just a piece of long, dirty orange material, maybe a drapery once? It was 3 inches from the floor and she hated to walk past it, but it was right in front of the bathroom.



She hated to go into the bathroom at all. The tub was almost black all around the inside, hadn't been cleaned in years. She never understood why the soap bubbles her mother used didn't clean that black off. Her mother told her the bubbles did the cleaning. The house was always drenched in the scents of Lysol and Raid.



The toilet had never been cleaned that she knew of, in fact, she had never seen a toilet cleaned, but her mother told her they were self-cleaning. The girl wasn't so sure. In fact, she was almost certain that was not true. Her mother said many things that were not true, but when said, they seemed so true.



The sink also was black inside and often clogged with something. There was just one tooth brush, but Mother didn't think brushing teeth was very important and she had stories to back that up. The little girl, now, she would be insulted to be called 'little girl" since she was almost 12, saw on TV that brushing was good and Crest was good too. In school, when she really was little, only 6, the entire school got free Crest tooth paste, something about an experiment the Crest company was doing. Crest was supposed to prevent cavities. Big deal, Mother didn't think children should go to dentists. And the girl never did.



The girl had two brothers, but they were older and left her alone with her mother. Those were the scary years. Scary in a strange way, maybe, the girl could not allow herself to be afraid or even feel fear, who would take care of her mother? Her mother worked very hard and was very tired when she got home from work. She sat at her yellow top kitchen table and smoked some cigarettes, placing the butts in an ashtray made from a jar lid. It always overflowed onto the table.


Well, not actually the table top, as that was covered with papers. Mostly bills, newspapers, mail, the mother had a system. All bills that could not wait, that would be anything like electric, gas, water, got paid first; the rest waited until the late notices, all of which were eventually tossed. (Tossed in the closet by the bathroom, behind the living room couch, on the floor, in the tiny tin room between the kitchen and back door---tossed into hiding. Mother was not a hoarder. She was a hider.)



One sunny day, the girl walked into the kitchen and her mother sat smoking, coffee at the ready (in a cup not washed in months, stained so badly it would remain that way until tossed) with small knat type bugs flying all around her. Not an unusual sight, there was so much rotten food tossed around, dropped on the floor, behind the refrigerator, and then there was the cat box's old contents tossed and the dog poop tossed about, the utensil drawer has mouse droppings on all of the spoons and all about the house, but the girl had to laugh at the large amount of the bugs.



"What are you naming your new little friends, there, Mom?" she asked with a laugh.



Laughing back, her mom replied, "That is Fred and there is Suzie, and Tom..."



The girl opened the refrigerator and the smell was awful, but not as bad as many things she had smelled before. Many items were uncapped, like the mayo, ketchsup (her mother loved ketchsup on her eggs), there were many leftovers, weeks old and moldy...what to choose? The girl decided on a hot dog and ate it uncooked. There were no pots that could be cleaned, so hard was the scum on them, and the stove was so greasy and dirty that the girl was afraid a fire might start, so she ate most things cold. When she ate there at all. Usually she ate next door at her great aunt's house. Such a contrast---clean everything at the aunt's, the girl felt guilty, feeling that she wished she lived there instead. Her mother never ate next door. many times after her nap 5:30 to 7PM every night; she sent the girl out with money to buy food at the small grocery a few blocks away, when the girl turned 16, she sent her to fast food restaurants to get dinner.



The mother hated shopping, so fresh food was rare. The girl never saw fruits or vegetables in her home then, unless her mother's sister brought some to them from her garden in the country. The girl tried to plant her own garden, but a woman her mother had rented to tore it up to plant a flower bush.



When the aunt with the vegetables visited, the hiding began. Everything dirty or old was stuffed behind the couch, under beds, and in the closets. But the girl only remembered one such visit. All the next visits were done next door. That was their pretend home.



If there was a knock on the door, the pair would hide, stay still, hold breath, until whoever it was went away. The girl became very good at hiding. But, it took an emotional toll on her, perhaps more than anything else. The message was clear: Don't get caught. The mother told the girl that they would go to jail, that her father, who left the day she was born and had a family of his own somewhere, would take her away. That always brought tears to her mother's eyes and the girl couldn't stand to see her mother so sad.



The girl felt responsible for the mess that was their home. She tried to clean up, but her mother would make filthy and cluttered, a clean table or room in just a day or two. The girl gave up and spent a lot of time in HER room, which was tidy and as clean as she knew how to make it. The closet though...it was small and had large, rat size cracks in it. Over the years she would see rats, mice, bats, and large spiders in it. She kept her clothes outside after awhile, on top of her chair, and the last time she looked, that closet was a cocoon of spider webs.



If a bug or mouse was seen on the floor, one covered it with a glass. One mouse turned into a skeleton. The mother and daughter did not go into each others rooms, but once the little girl tried to clean her mother's room for a birthday gift---impossible. After removing garbage bags of trash, the girl realized that she had never seen her mother's bedroom carpet before, the color of it...yep, dirty orange.



OK, yes, the girl was me. And I have only scratched the surface of my childhood from 9-18. At 18, I took over the apt., and mom moved back downstairs. I had to hire a DUMP TRUCK to remove all the trash. Bag after bag, then shovels...and even then it was not completely "clean" of junk.



Want to hear more? I got a child's pool table and it became a living room table. I mean, I had no one to play with and it had to be used to pile stuff on. Empty take-put containers (all the plastic trash cans were always full, Mom would rather dump the whole can in a closet than carry it downstairs and dump it in the trash dumpster she paid for; then we would toss until a new plastic can had to be purchased. By now mom was using credit cards for most things. Back to the pool table, it was covered in maggots. Yep, right there in our living room.



There was a double door, long closet, in the living room and it was full to the top. At the end, you couldn't open either door without all hell flowing out. (soiled clothes, used menstrual pads, dog poo, cat poo, vacuum bags busted out with dead mice, bones, feces) I never knew vacuum's had bags or that they could be CHANGED until I was 18.



Our basement was out of a horror movie with bats and spiders and scary shadows, one light bulb, and that was where the washer and dryer was, so neither mom nor I were ever in a rush to go down there. Plus you had to go outside and around the house to get to it.



The dog and cat vomit was really disgusting, but after a few weeks the shag carpet soaked it in. There were newspapers spread in ever room, except my bedroom, where we knew not to step.



I spent a lot of years beating myself up for all this---when I started seeing how houses SHOULD be (Aunt Vi's was just too perfect to seem real.), plus my brothers already had put me in the "it's all your fault mode" then when I got into my late 20s, and looked at kids who were 8,9,10-13...it hit me one day: I was just a kid. SHE was the adult. It wasn't my fault and I couldn't have made it all right. I'm crying now, so I guess I can't shake the feeling that I SHOULD have known...what to do.



Mom wasn't big on personal hygiene. At least I wasn't taught what normal parents teach their kids. Kids at school used to tease me for smelling bad, in Jr High. I walked the length of the cafeteria with a bright red blood stain on my dress, all the kids pointing and laughing. The school nurse wanted to give me a pad, but I already had one. I just didn't know how to wear it or when to change them. (If you follow my blog, you know I NEVER used a public restroom all my school years.)



Didn't know when or how to shave my legs or pits. For years I tried with little success, bloodied myself mostly, scraping off skin---Mom said she had same problem and it was because our hair was so tough. No, Mom, it was that you never put new razor blades in. I never knew you COULD until I was in my twenties. And the reason the electric one never worked? Right, you must clean it.



My hair? A mess, greasy and disgusting. For many years I couldn't SEE my hair, needed glasses, later, and the mirrors were so filthy. When I visited a high school friend's house once, I dropped an egg on the counter. I used some paper towel to clean it, but told my friend, "It won't all come off." My friend looked at me in amazement, "What?" Like I was insane.



"You just scrub it," she said as she rubbed the area and to MY amazement---it disappeared! I will never forget that moment. All those years, I thought, and the answer was so simple!



Now do you understand why Aunt Vi fought with my mom so much? Why, on her hands and knees, scrubbing our bathroom floor in her 60s, she said to me, "Don't you EVER grow up like your mother!" "I won't," I said. But I loved my mom and always felt sorry for her. She was so alone. She didn't seem to know the magical secrets either.



She wouldn't have kept me in the same size shoe from 8-12, if she had known that my feet were too big and my toes were becoming deformed. Why would she let her child eat with spoons that mice had left feces on? For years we didn't know what it was, so we ate them, laughing and pretending it was caviar. Is our laughing our problems away together so cute now? You, my readers, have found previous accounts of our laughter, "sweet." but for me it was survival. I knew my life was wrong. I knew when I grew up I would move far away and never live like my mother. Many days I skipped school and stayed in bed, "dream a dream," I called it. Even did that at bedtime---a conscience command of the story of my dreams. I had a normal life in the dreams. I wanted to sleep until I was 18 and live on my own. I would have clean clothes, hair, and soft clean towels. Our towels were always dirty and smelly and rough.

My room, which I prided myself on, was not right either. One day I had a friend over and I always quickly took them to my room. I enjoyed showing off my white Snoopy curtains Aunt Vi had bought for me. My sheets had Snoopy on them too, I pulled back the cover to show it off and looked at my friend's face which was drawn with again, amazement, and disgust---"When was the last time you washed the sheet?" she asked. I had no fast answer, just the thought: why would one wash sheets when you wear pajama's to bed? Then I looked at the sheet, really looked, and there was a dark outline of a body. Oh, my God, I thought, sheets should be washed!

It really is amazing I had any friends at all. My friends had problem parents too, maybe we were friends in part because we understood how life was not like Leave It To Beaver.



My mom held a good job, went to work every day, her children got good grades, when we had no food she made up stories about us being camping or I was Heidi eating a cheese sandwich (sometimes the cheese was pretend too)---Aunt Vi did all she could. And *I* was an embarrassment to Mom? Yeah, that never sat well with me, but I never held it against her---I felt and feel sorry for her. Was her mother's death so traumatizing to her? Or was her husband's affair so traumatizing? I have asked many people: Why is Mom the way she is? No one knows for sure.

When she visited me in Seattle, on her last trip out here from Indiana, I had a new condo I wanted to show off. A plumber was due to put in new Moen faucets, the most expensive they had. (Clean faucets important to me too.) Mom was sitting in the living room when he left and he said, "You have the neatest under the sink area I've ever seen." My eyes met Mom's for just a second and she never spoke again while she was in Seattle. That's right, it put her into some coma-like state. My partner tried taking her out to eat on a day I had to work---nothing. She spent her last day sitting on our patio, in the shaded corner, staring at our senior neighbors, all her peers. We said not a word at the airport when she left. I understood though. We both knew we would never see each other again, and we won't.

I posted that I went home once and couldn't stand the sight of the broken down house. A few comments made me think that YOU thought my Mom no longer lived there. She did. It was still filthy in most areas, Aunt Vi rented one of the small apts. after her companion died. If not for Aunt Vi's cleaning, the house would have been as filthy as ever. And that was true, until Aunt Vi could no longer see.

Mom made me promise, when I was in my teens, that I never write about my life (the filth, the gay) until she "was gone." Well, I had to let go of the one promise and now at 53, with her barely remembering who I am, I have to break the promise of our mother-daughter secret, because I have secondary progressive MS and who knows how much longer I can tell this story? Plus, I watched Mom's promise to Aunt Vi (to never let her go to a nursing home) destroy any chance Mom had of living on her own, however she wanted. She always wanted a little house of her own.

One of the worst things I had to do was mow our large yard where our dogs had pooped. None of us ever thought of picking up the daily duty, we mowed over it. The grass would be as high as your knee and you would step in poop while mowing it. So gross. Only after I moved in with my current partner did I learn that one cleans up after their dog on a daily basis. I always wondered.

Over the years I have spoken often about bits of my childhood, and this is just a bit, but at work I was teased for having such a clean desk and they would say I had a "condition" because of how I was raised. PLEASE I do admit being unable to clean my home as I wish is hard, but I have embraced my lot in life. Now you know.

Cake at The Viewpointe on Queen Anne in Seattle

One of our staff is flying off to Cambodia to get married and will be back in a month. She is the concierge and it will be interesting to see how we survive without here. That cake was made of delicious cupcakes; I am not sure where the manager gets his cakes, but they are always so tasty. I have never seen her look so happy.

Palin Says the GOP is Party of Hell

Now, does the GOP really need this? Palin said, the GOP is not the party of "no," but the party of "hell no!" Is some Democrat handing her a shovel?

Sarah Palin on my TV---America's Media Sucks

Why is the media covering Sarah Palin? Don't her supporters know she is just advertising for her reality show? I just don't know who takes her seriously and why the media wastes time on her thoughts about our president signing a historical peace agreement. Kate plus 8, minus 1 husband, probably has thoughts about the agreement---why doesn't the media headline with THAT? It would be just as interesting.

The Kangaroo That Lived Next to a Fire Station

That's right, it is a kangaroo with baby, called a joey, in her pouch. Yes, it is sitting in a power chair. How is this possible? By the power of the Internet, email, social networking as 'tis called.
I mentioned the story of how I used to stand close, but never touch, the stuffed (you Canadians call them plushies, I think) animal my older cousin had in her pink, girlie, perfect bedroom with ballet slippers on the floor. Oh, how I longed to touch it, but I dared not touch her things. Besides, I have never been a toucher. (Touchers drive me crazy, like my partner...must touch everything in stores...baffling. I digress.) I mentioned it to her and soon a box was delivered to my door with a replica of said kangaroo.

It sat in our living room for months before I touched, then held it. (No one else was allowed to touch it.) Isn't emailing fabulous? Isn't my cousin the best? She was the only older kid (she is same age as my brother) who treated me with kindness. It wasn't HER who didn't want me to touch her plushie---more a "thing" of my mother. In my mother's eyes, this cousin and her family were of a higher class. Come to think of it, I don't recall mom ever visiting their house. It was next to a fire station, which I thought was the coolest thing EVER! I loved visiting with Aunt Vi and watching the fire trucks take off. (Something I bet got old fast with my cousin's parents; her mother was actually my cousin. She is my 2nd cousin.)

As much as I will always miss letters, emailing has brought me in touch with family members all over the states. Can you imagine Ben Franklin emailing Jefferson from Paris? Or the sexting between Abe and whoever?

This White Woman's Admission About Obama

I am ashamed to admit it, but I have told you, my peeps, so much, I feel compelled to say my deepest feelings. Now, I consider myself to be a liberal, non-racist or judgemental white (and I do mean white, French in me makes me as white as snow before any dogs hit it, many times I have been called pale, ie sick looking, NO I am WHITE. genes, baby.) woman, but when I saw Obama this morning signing a peace agreement of some sort (he just never gets enough peace, gees)---it over came me, and I saw him as he was for the first time, at least allowing my sub-conscience to release the thought. Am I better than him just because he is in the minority and not like me? Of course not, though I do dream of debating him on some topic, in college. Sorry, self-indulgently digressing.

If YOU are like me, do you "notice" it? I know slurs are wrong, bad, but he has heard it before---he is a lefty. I wonder how many left handed presidents we have had. When my right hand was taken over by MS one year, I started typing on my computer at work and writing with just my left hand---very challenging, but doable.

I also admit to ignorance about left-handed people, having known one school chum and one cousin (who was ambidextrous, hey, no judging here, people should love who they want), but I bet there are many brilliant, successful left-handers.

Laughter Can Kill People with MS

I'm watching a news reporter losing it. She has the giggles. She is laughing now, but in meetings later she won't feel so cute about it. What happened? Well, she started slipping up her words, repeating "a bit of" "not much really" and suddenly she either started gearing herself (you know those out-of-body moments when you seem to be looking down on yourself screwing up.)(huh?)

During my brief jump into acting, I never "lost" it and I don't think I ever would. (Though I lose it a LOT off stage, and am sometimes accused of fits of insanity. I can laugh so hard, all alone, that I can't breathe. Once I read that people with MS can die from laughing uncontrollably. I believe that. Usually I am laughing at conversations in my head. In all humility, uh-hem, I am pretty damn funny...at least in my own mind.

Now, this post was supposed to be about something else...I wonder what.

The Civil War Not Over For Many

Okay, the Governor of Virginia wants April to be Confederate History Month. Seriously? Isn't that like Germany having a Nazi History Month to celebrate the sacrifices of the Nazi soldiers? There is something wrong with the idea that this is a good idea. How do we put the horrible acts of slavery into the past, when we put them front and center in 2010? If you every wondered if our country is entrenched in a secret desire of many, to return to those days, to win that civil war and make things right---wonder no more.

The good people of Virginia should flood the phone lines of Gov.Robert F. McDonnell (R) (Duh) and insist on a repeal of his hatred-filled proclamation. I feel the same chills as I do when I see a Confederate flag on someone's house or car.

While I expected a white-is-right backlash from Obama's presidency, I didn't realize how low our elected politicians would sink.

Lady Gaga, and the Cat Lady

I spent most of the day (when not doing taxes or singing or fissing with the council president, or sitting on the throne of course) trying to get Lady Gaga tickets for a friend's birthday. People, I am old. I thought it when I tried paying my cell phone bill with a rep. over my land line, and I swear she morphed into an alien creature, "just push 611 and send." Huh? It was a sad conversation as my chronological age fell upon me like rings on a tree. My immediate response was to hang up and mail in the bill late...then I grew up or grew younger, my goal, and forced the 19 year old explain how to do it. "Speak slow, I'm old," I said in a voice that sounded as young as hers.

But, now, at 9:30PM, Tues., I feel each of my 53 years. What I was forced to endure whilst searching for a safe site for tickets, finding a fair price, completing the many pages while a timer was counting down my minutes before those 2 (she has a daughter gaga for Gaga) seats were gone. At 9PM I was so close, then submit and "site closed." Huh?

Then I went to the suggested by my band member (tee hee, "my band member") site right at the place of concert. Got to end, faster, great seats, T-shirt, YEA, "enter your last digits of your social security number," no you dinnit. Crepe! (Thanks Martha and Doug R; I've found a nice cuss word) So...I am Gaga-less in Seattle. Fate. (Sorry, Doug B)

However and so forth and so on, that is NOT what I wanted to post about. Keep up:
In 1982, I had a job as a security guard at Bethlehem Steel. I made friends with another guard and visited her home. She lived with her partner of many years. Her partner, I was told, was psychic, so I had to see for myself.

Entering their small house, it was quite dark in the living room, a bit eerie really. Her partner reminded me of a 1950s housewife, hair in a bun. "Have a seat. I'll get you a soda." (soda? ok)
As I sat waiting there was a sense around me that was very spooky. I felt there were 100 eyes on me. Looking around the room, a few pictures on wall, a fireplace, many pillows...then I saw it.

A tail moved over a pillow and as I stared about the room, it was FILLED with unmoving cats, all staring at me. Maybe not fifty, but maybe so. (They would eventually be forced to move or lose the cats---last I heard they moved to the country.) Every top of every "thing" in the room had a cat on it. No scent of cat anywhere, nor any cat hair. The Mrs. LOVED her cats. I will never forget that feeling though of finally seeing them every where. I think every town has a cat lady.

So Close Butler Loses By a Hair

You have to understand. Indiana Hoosiers eat, drink, and breathe basketball. It is in our blood. Growing up, if you didn't have a hoop in your yard or at least on your block, well, you weren't in Indiana. Aunt Vi had part of her back yard paved just so my brothers and I could have a court for the rim on her old garage that once housed horses.

I watched the cement being spread. We picked out a brand new, bright orange hoop and the most expensive net. I can feel that net and slick hoop right now. Of course nothing feels like a new basketball. I kept mine until last year. But my last game had been almost a decade earlier.

Butler lost in one of the best games I've ever seen. Almost hurts worse to be so close. Indiana children will continue to dream and pretend to have 10 seconds left, get the ball, fall back, shoot as the buzzer goes off---and it falls in. Hoosier basketball lives for those moments.

Congratulations Duke, tall Duke, Indiana will see you again.

Indiana, Where Basketball Rules. GO BUTLER!

Butler U, where I competed in a speech meet during my high school years. A lovely campus, a fierce basketball team, taking on D U K E !!!!! I know Indianapolis is going crazy tonight!

Roto-Rooter Boss Hates Oatmeal (The gunk from stopped up nursing home pipes)

I am hooked on the new TV show, Undercover Boss. Oh, what I wouldn't have given for such a boss in my dept. at work in call center with the city of Seattle. Not that any union job would have been in jeopardy. The unions have a bad rap because they too often stick up for the worker who doesn't feel like working. (At least with employees who support their union in other areas like getting them higher pat and fair treatment. A trade off one takes willing, but still; I hated that about my union.)

On the show the CEO will change his looks and pretend to be a new employee. It is a feel good hour for me. Maybe I am naive and it is just another dumb reality show, but I love the concept.
The boss learns about some employees who need help with daycare or illness has taken them off job for so long they can't keep up house payments---the bosses are emotionally moved. Once an industrious young man had many ideas about how to improve the theme park he worked at *He got free school tuition and a promotion). All the hardship and hard workers are rewarded at shows end when the boss holds a meeting and reveals his true identify.

Many are well known companies, last night Roto Rooter, and other shows had many family businesses from way back. The well off boss inherited job from father, who inherited it from his father and the current kid is out of touch. It brings the job home to them. Fun to watch the bosses screw up the jobs too! Once our superintendent got on the phones in our call center and took calls---too funny! Loved it. Makes them realize how much we do and how tough it is to do a good job.

To this day, I still say McDonald's training program was the best I ever had. One of my first jobs while in High School, and to this day their training was the best I got. I'll keep watching Undercover Boss.

You can watch full episodes here.

Earthquake in California 7.2

Strong quake hits L.A.

Aunt Vi's Old Bedroom Catches Fire

"One person suffered minor injuries in a fire Wednesday that heavily damaged a house on the city’s near-south side.
Fort Wayne firefighters were called to 938 Lincoln Ave., between Broadway and Indiana Avenue, about 3 p.m. and found light smoke coming from the two-story house.
An initial report indicated someone was trapped inside, but when crews arrived, the resident had made it outside, the Fort Wayne Fire Department said.
The resident suffered minor injuries in the fire and was treated by medics at the scene.
Firefighters brought the blaze under control in about 10 minutes.
The fire started in the first-floor bedroom and heavily damaged a second-floor bedroom.
The cause is under investigation." Fort Wayne Journal Gazette 4/1/10

That bedroom was Aunt Vi's. The man could climb out the large window there, onto roof, and a neighbor grabbed a ladder to save the current resident. I called Indiana when a cousin notified me of this, and found that Aunt Vi had been sick a few days with a cold. Will be curious to see what if anything she experienced on the day of fire. Click to see photos.

Obama in Person, Secret Service Galore

I got permission to share this email with you from a blog friend:

"We have returned from seeing Obama......there was moderate protest outside but the police presence kept it peaceful......I went to the handicapped section with my sister and the daughter of our Veterinarian who called and asked us to take her..........it turned out to be so great because it was to the side of the stage right where Obama was.....10 yards away.....the people in Government of Maine where in front of us......and that was thrilling to see the dignitaries.....we were in the 4th row and there was the stage......the secret service was amazing to watch.......they were everywhere....fascinating watching them.......we had the best view......there were speakers and then thunderous applause......and there he was......right there so beautiful and young and energetic and such a good speaker.....he spoke for about an hour and then went into the crowds......on the edges not going too far in............he spoke of the new health care bill he just signed......Mary went to the interior of the Expo to go to the bathroom and it was also lined with the secret service.....for protection......a real relief because no one wants to see something happen to him......huge police presence everywhere Then he left. No one knew where they took him but there was soon a motorcade and then later, helicopters taking him to N Hamphire where he flew in to an airport big enough for Air Force One......yesterday in my room I could see helicopters flying overhead announcing his arrival today.....so much security...Well, we don't know how to go on......I have never seen a President much less Obama.....Yesterday, after waiting outside in the cold and rain for 3 hours with 3 hours more to go to get tickets, the people organizing this had me and the woman beside me who had an oxygen tank go into the lobby to get warm We got to see all the cool people from Washington/OBama's team.....and all the Maine press arrive to interview all the political people.....the man in charge went out and had them come inside to speak with the two of us....they saw an publicity opportunity as he was here speaking of the new health care bill. Reporters interviewed us, the AP did too and took px and then they opened the door to let the crowds in to get their tickets. The head man from Washington gave Jeanette and me the first two tickets sold to honor us sitting outside since 6am I still have my gold-embossed ticket and we are going to frame it......too much to handle.....am in seventh heaven.......So look for Obama on the news tonight.......see the happy crowd......gotta go calm down and come back to reality.......luv, your friend"

Ipad Time? Apple in MY Seattle House?

I'm starting to feel I want an Ipad. SOMEBODY STOP ME!!!! I am thinking Apple love. Shake it off, Diane, shake it off. Bill Gates. Seattle. Anybody have one yet?

Murders Doctor in Church, Now He Gets 50 Years

Scott Roeder, an abortion-rights foe convicted of killing a doctor in church, sentenced to at least 50 years in prison. CNN

As he left the sentencing he shouted his right to kill the "baby killer."

Canadian Taxes? Tax Time is Hell

Hate tax time. Do my own taxes, on principle. I must be a masochist. Must it be so difficult? Why so many rules? I am disabled and on SS---ridiculous. Is it easier in Canada?

A Most Wonderful Birthday! Ukulele, singing birds, cakes of crab and poker!

Yesterday, my 53rd birthday, was a most wonderful day! Most of my birthdays just come and go. I usually go off to reflect, watch the clouds, things of that nature. Last year I was in a very bad way, still fighting whatever virus or vitamin D overdose took me down and had me in an ICU for 5 days. This year was spectacularily magnificent.



Started out with my standing alone again. Hooray! My alarm didn't go off (Partner had awoken in night, tried to adjust my pillow, knocked over my lamp, clock, ripped the lamp shade and duct taped it together---something she would NEVER have done in her awake-hours! In morning she didn't even remember, too funny. Personally, I am a duct tape fan. A Vietnamese maintenance man at my previous apt. once told me that is entire country was held together with duct tape.)

and I over slept until 6am, that felt weird.



At 8:30am, a friend brought a birthday present for me, including mylar balloon, marijuana filled brownies! I always wanted to try them! I am medical mj certified, so don't bother calling the cops. She apologized for them tasting like sea grass, but I LOVE sea grass, and I loved the brownies. Ate two at 2PM, nothing but more weakness in my legs and a bit of a stomach pain, but that could have been from lunch or gas. And so ends my foray into the world of 1960's mary jane. But at 53 I can now say I tried it.



At 8ish, I called new lesbian who moved in and asked if she wanted to teach me Texas Hold Em at 9:30 in social room. She had said she is up by 8, so 9:30 was fine with her and I left with my friend. I'll call the lesbian with MS (and my age--how cool is that?) Jeri. In way to social room I passed the most beautiful looking 80-something, she had a halo of good nature and joy above her and I told her so. She was wearing bright white running shoes and soft jeans. I was looking at a 25 year old. (I told her that too.) It was just a wonderful exchange.



Then I entered the social room where Jeri was waiting near the computer in the far corner. We exchanged "Hi"s and it was downhill from there. First she barked an order, "Get the cards."

(Okay, no problem, I knew where they were kept. Slight problem making my way around the cabinet, but no biggie.) "Anywhere you want to sit?" I asked. "Whatever works for you," she said as she made her way over in her scooter.



We sat at a round table and I opened the deck. Next wonderful thing happened--I was able to shuffle the cards, maybe not as effortlessly as I once did, but I could handle them without 52-card pick up! Jeri agreed to teach me how to play since I have only played stud (very well, I might add humbly. Uh-hem) and last time I played poker I was 5 years old. (Lot of playing between 3-5) I have, however played Texas Hold Em online (Hi, Lisa!) so I get the gist of it, but don't really understand all the rules. So Jeri showed me. Not hard to pick up. (I still like stud better, old school.)



Then the conversation went to MS and what meds we take and why or why now this or that. How great to have someone with MS to talk with. (What was I thinking? I've read enough blogs and been shut out of at least one for my dislike of all the DMD drugs and the doctors who sell them, literally sell them. (Lisa, Jen, you know how I feel, pinkie swear no fights. Seriously, you both have an attitude that I feel certain precludes fights of such a childish nature, plus if you've cussed me out, you will be done by now. And don't expect me to say I love your Montel shirt.)



Okay, so she starts with all the drugs she has tried, basically all of them, and I asked why she had to switch from one to the next. (Buckle up.) She said they stopped working for her or didn't work for her. I asked in what way? She said her MS wasn't getting better. I said no DMD promises that, MS is a chronic progressive disease and they only---here is when the cutting me off began and continued until she left. She disagrees that MS has to progress (she was DX 1990 just like me, she needs a scooter, grab bars, hasn't been able to get in her bed yet...) and, "*I* am going to fight this. I know you don't trust doctors (somewhat true, not full picture, but okay) but I want my neurologist to give me any new drug there is. I am not going to progress. I exercise (like I don't?) and take supplements." She looks away, shakes her head in disgust.



The retirement home receptionist brings in a lovely cake for me at this point and wishes me a happy b'day. Momentary interruption. (While I was being taught Texas Hold Em, I said after some hands that I got it, thanks for teaching me, she said some things she couldn't teach, I broke into Lady Gaga Poker Face, we laughed, next had I fooled her and raised large to a straight---I took more joy in the irony than she did, uh-hem) "Are you implying *I* don't fight my MS?"



Oh, no, no, she said she didn't mean that, she knows I do in my own way. (Fair enough, but tone was changing.) Then our fantastic maintenance man came into the room. First he ribbed me about the cake, my birthday, and he sits at lunch table with Jeri, table I had sat at the previous day when I mentioned singing with a piano player server (server of food in dining room for those of you not living in a an assisted living or retirement home) and how I couldn't get to the keys to play if I wanted to. (NOT that I wanted to and it was off the cuff, I call it lunch conversation with a table of 6, but Jeri apparently heard it as a call to arms. (I don't think she reads my blog much. Jen, Lisa, I don't need anyone talking for me. I'm guessing my peeps know this. LOL) and Jeri starts telling him to move the piano out saying, "I want to play it." She had told him (yes, TOLD him) to move it and the organ next to it, to move it out so she could get behind them. Others at the table asked if she could play and she said yes, a little. "Besides, it should be accessible to everyone!" (True enough, but unless someone with a disability wants or needs to play them...I HAVE studied the ADA just a bit. sarcasm. Remember, this is her first day here and she doesn't know me from Adam.) (Who IS this Adam?)



In fact the day after that lunch conversation, AJ moved the piano out so I could get close enough for him to hear me sing. The piano is on wheels, nestled between Feisty the pitch-perfect show-off canary, and a resident's organ. Two sensitive claims the canary and organ, by the women who care for them.



Poor (I'll call him Bob) Bob, the maintenance man, now he knows about the sensitive area he is about to enter, but bless his heart he tries to move the piano, and didn't someone put the odd bench back under the piano! (see previous posts) At this point I am hanging waaaay back. And Bob tells Jeri she can make it back there. (Not) Jeri is mad, because clearly, Not. Then I say, "Just remember Bob, I had NOTHING to do with this. I am out of this."



That set Jeri off. Now she starts yelling that I wanted it done, and this place is bad, just a basic melt down. So I say, "I don't need anyone speaking for me. There are issues here, The bird lady the organ owner..." (Bob is trying to support me as suddenly I am in a line of fire, with, "that;s right" and "yes" but Jeri ignores him and presses on into me. "You are one of those people who always has to be right. You are right and everyone else is wrong." (She proceeded to insult me in numerous ways as I sat listening, occasionally looking at Bob who had the same look as I did---what the hell is happening? Oh, I left something out.



When Jeri was finished saying she would not progress (quite possible since she appears to be in SPMS, usual MS timeline), she started in on why don't I go to support groups and there is one for gays, etc., to which I ask, "Why should I?"



"To make friends (ugh, pretty swamped right now), to be with people of our philosophy and lifestyle." (double ugh, that was MY last straw)



"I have quite a few friends already and make more here every day. And I am not living any philosophy about being gay. I..." (she cuts me off) "Fine, fine, well I can never have enough friends, I think friends are important (my irony needle is moving), you are happy here being with all this older people that's fine." (Now my blood pressure is rising. You can insult me, but not my friends!)



Replying in a calm voice, I say, "I have friends here who are in their 20's too." (Like Angie and my piano man among others) This was when Bob entered the room. Seeing the pretty cake and wishing me a happy birthday. He is such an upbeat guy, a real sweetheart. Back to her outburst---



She yells, "Whatever!" As she gears her scooter up I say, "No, not whatever, There are people's feelings to consider." Now she absolutely loses it. 'The Bird Lady the organ lady. I've had it. To hell with this. I'm moving out." She speeds out, with Bob saying, "Oh, come on don't be a bad sport." And she was gone.



Bob walked slowly over to the table where my cake and the cards she had left thrown about. He say down and we started to play cards. I explained what I'd learned, we casually discussed Jeri's performance. We agreed that we felt bad for her, that she is under stress just moving in to a new world. Then after about 10 minutes, Jeri drives back up to us.



"I want to apologize for the outburst." Bob and I brush it off with, no problem, it happens, all good and Bob goes further saying how stressful moving is and here she interrupts. " Well, I'm moving out." Bob says, "You gotta do what you gotta do." She takes off. Bob and I look at each other, shake our heads, "Too bad." We finish playing some poker.



Bob pats me on the shoulder, "I'm sorry this had to spoil your birthday."

I laugh. "Believe me, I have been called worse before. I could care less."



For me---same old, same old, I don't conform so I think others who do things I disagree with are wrong. NOT. What a boring world that would be. I feel that I am the one always judged harshly. But does it phase me? Seriously? After 53 years of dealing with the contempt of my brothers, the dismissal by my family and friends from Indiana that I once felt so close to? HA!



I must say I expected such outburst from the over 75 generation and that has not happened. I am with family. (I never had a Jeri in my family, but did have her doppelganger at my job for 18 long years. LOL)



Then I went back to apt. and opened my presents. I got a (an? sounds wrong) ukulele! It is wonderful. (As many of my followers know, I savor new "things" so the uk is still in its box, sitting right in front of me, and I'll take it out today. I also got a chord book, how to dvd from a new family member, maybe I should say "friend" since I don't have enough. (sorry, ha ha ha) (Oh, in the PC of transparency I got a ca-zing in right before Jeri left: "You should discuss this with your support group." Hey, you swim with Alphas...) and I recommend these---a bag of Almond Joy M&M size bites. FANTASTIC! I bite and I felt like I'd had a whole bar! Will last me a year and always a treat available.



Lunch was delicious vegetable/noodle soup with Swiss cheese sandwich, watermelon. Dinner was crab cakes (my fave after salmon cakes) and yummy, perfectly cooked sliced vegetables with a drop of oil. The new chef has been great. Passed a resident, my family, who had been in rehab awhile, she had her first full night of sleep in weeks. We rejoiced at that.



Phone calls to from friends, Mom sleeping, watched Modern Family, beat partner at Jeopardy. A wonderful birthday that also began with my 15min sit in the glorious sun on my balcony!



Fifty three, life is good.